The Surgeon's Scars: Running From My Past

Adria Barr stepped out of the car and looked up at the looming silhouette of her family's estate. It had been six years since she ran away from this place, and more importantly, six years since she ran away from Damon Hansen.

Tonight was her grandfather's eightieth birthday gala. It was a summons she couldn't refuse, but as she stood on the gravel driveway, her legs felt heavy. In Boston, she was Dr. Barr, a respected cardiothoracic surgeon who held lives in her hands every day. But here, in the salty air of Nanxi City, she felt like the terrified twenty-year-old girl she had been when she left.

She handed her keys to the valet. Her fingers lingered on the metal fob for a second too long, the tips turning white from the pressure. She wasn't just walking into a dinner party; she was walking into a minefield.

"Welcome home, Ms. Barr," the valet said, his smile practiced and hollow.

Adria didn't answer. She couldn't. She turned toward the main house, where the golden glow of crystal chandeliers spilled out onto the manicured lawn. The noise hit her first-a wall of laughter, clinking glass, and the low hum of gossip. She took a deep breath, forcing the air into her lungs.

*Smile,* she told herself. *You fix trauma for a living. Do not let them see yours.*

She pasted on the expression she used when telling a family their loved one wouldn't make it-calm, detached, professional. She stepped through the French doors.

"Adria!"

The voice was deep, familiar. Adonis, her older brother, cut through the crowd like a ship breaking ice. He looked relieved, which only made Adria feel guiltier. He waved, beckoning her toward the family circle near the fireplace.

Adria moved toward him, her eyes scanning the room for threats, for exits. But she didn't look low enough.

Standing by Adonis's leg was a small boy. He couldn't have been more than four years old. He was tugging on Adonis's trouser leg, holding up a toy car.

Leo. Her nephew.

Adria's steps faltered. The air left the room.

Leo looked up. He had the Barr eyes-dark, inquisitive, innocent. He smiled, a gap-toothed, pure expression of joy.

The reaction was immediate and violent. Adria's stomach lurched. The boy was four years old-the exact age her own child would have been. A phantom pain shot through her abdomen, sharp and twisting, dragging her back to a cold clinic room and a flickering ultrasound screen.

*Why didn't you want me?*

The voice from her nightmares whispered in her ear. Adria took a stumbling step back. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't look at him. She averted her gaze, staring fixedly at a point on the wallpaper, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"Adria?" Adonis was beside her now, his hand heavy on her shoulder. "You look like you're going to faint. Are you okay?"

"Jet lag," Adria lied, the words tasting like ash. "I just need... champagne."

She reached for a flute from a passing tray. Her hand shook. She needed the alcohol to numb the edges of the panic that was clawing at her throat.

Just as her fingers brushed the cold glass stem, the atmosphere in the room shifted. It wasn't a sound; it was a sudden, collective intake of breath. The ambient chatter died down, replaced by the aggressive click-click-click of shutters.

Adria turned toward the entrance.

Damon Hansen stood in the archway.

He was wearing a black tuxedo that fit him with lethal precision. He looked older, harder, and colder than the man she had left behind. He radiated a dangerous, quiet power that sucked the oxygen right out of the room.

And he wasn't alone.

Hanging onto his arm, draped in shimmering silver silk, was Campbell Lowe.

Adria felt her blood turn to ice. The woman's smile was perfect, practiced for the cameras that were flashing blindingly in their faces. She leaned into Damon, whispering something in his ear, her hand resting possessively on his bicep. It was a picture of the future Adria had forfeited.

Adria's hand froze in mid-air, inches from the champagne. Her lungs simply stopped working. Six years of building walls, of convincing herself she was over him, of telling herself she had moved on-it all crumbled into dust in a single heartbeat.

Damon didn't look at the cameras. He didn't look at Campbell. He scanned the room with the predatory indifference of a wolf assessing a herd of sheep.

Then, his gaze landed on Adria.

He stopped.

It was a physical halt, as if he had walked into a glass wall. His pupils blew wide, swallowing the blue of his irises. For a second, the mask of indifference cracked, revealing something raw and terrifying. Shock. Disbelief. And then, a rage so potent it felt like heat radiating across the ballroom floor.

Campbell stumbled slightly at his abrupt stop. She looked up at him, confused, then followed his line of sight. When she saw Adria, her smile didn't falter, but her eyes narrowed into slits.

Adria wanted to run. Her muscles screamed at her to turn and flee, to get back in her car and drive until the ocean swallowed the road. But she was paralyzed. She was pinned by the weight of Damon's stare.

Damon didn't blink. He reached out mechanically, his eyes never leaving Adria's face, and snatched a tumbler of whiskey from a waiter's tray.

He didn't drink it.

He just held it, his grip tightening. He took a step toward her. Then another. The crowd parted instinctively, sensing the volatility radiating off him.

Adria dropped her gaze. She couldn't handle the intensity. She couldn't handle the hatred she saw burning there. She looked down at her shoes, breaking the connection.

The sound was like a gunshot.

*CRACK.*

Adria's head snapped up.

Damon was still standing there, ten feet away. The heavy crystal glass in his hand had shattered. Amber liquid and bright red blood were dripping from his clenched fist, soaking into the pristine Persian rug.

The room went dead silent. The music seemed to stop.

Campbell let out a short, high-pitched scream. "Damon! Your hand!" She reached for him, trying to pry his fingers open.

Damon didn't even look at his hand. He didn't seem to feel the shards of glass digging into his palm. He shook Campbell off with a rough jerk of his arm, sending her stumbling back.

He took another step toward Adria. Blood dripped from his fingertips, leaving a macabre trail. His eyes were wild, focused solely on her.

Adonis stepped in front of Adria, his body blocking her from view. "Back off, Hansen," he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

"Sir! Sir, please let me look at that!"

The hotel manager came rushing over, clutching a white first-aid box like a shield. He looked terrified, his eyes darting between the blood dripping from Damon's hand and the expensive carpet.

Damon didn't look at the manager. He looked at Adonis, then tried to look past him to where Adria was cowering. With an impatient growl, he snatched a linen napkin from a nearby table and wrapped it crudely around his palm. The white fabric blossomed red almost instantly.

"I'm fine," Damon rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together. "Back off."

The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. The organizers, desperate to salvage the evening, began ushering guests toward the dining area with overly loud voices and strained smiles.

"Dinner is served! Please, everyone, find your seats!"

Adria felt a hand on her back. It was her mother, Mrs. Barr. Her grip was firm, bordering on painful. "Pull yourself together, Adria," she hissed in her ear. "Don't make a scene. We are at the main table."

Adria wanted to vomit. She wanted to leave. But the social contract of her world was a steel trap. She let herself be guided to the large round table near the front of the room.

She sat down, her knees knocking together. She reached for her water glass, needing something to do with her hands.

Then the chair opposite her was pulled out.

Damon sat down. He didn't sit like a civilized guest; he sprawled, taking up space, his bandaged hand resting on the tablecloth like a declaration of war. He was directly across from her. There was nowhere to look but at him.

Campbell slid into the seat next to him, smoothing her silk dress. She looped her arm through Damon's uninjured one, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Oh my god, Damon, you scared me," she murmured, loud enough for the table to hear. She looked at Adria with a triumphant, pitying smile.

The rest of the table filled up. Ollie and Zack, Damon's childhood friends, took the remaining seats. They looked like they would rather be anywhere else.

Ollie, never one to read the room, cleared his throat. He looked from Damon's bleeding hand to Adria's pale face and let out a nervous chuckle. "Well, this is cozy. Just like the old days, right?"

Adria's hands were shaking so badly she had to tuck them under her thighs. She dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to use the physical pain to ground herself.

Damon didn't speak. He just watched her. He saw the way her shoulders were hunched, the way she was making herself small. His jaw worked, a muscle feathering under his skin.

Waiters descended, placing appetizers in front of them. Oysters on the half shell.

The smell hit Adria instantly-the brine, the raw metallic scent of the sea. It triggered a violent recoil in her body. Her stomach cramped hard. Since the miscarriage, since the hemorrhage that had nearly drained her life away in that apartment, her body rejected raw food. It rejected the smell of blood and brine.

She stared at the plate, bile rising in her throat.

"You know," Ollie continued, oblivious to the homicide stare Damon was giving him, "I'm surprised you came, Adria. You used to avoid these things like the plague. Especially... well, you know."

Especially to avoid Damon. That was what he didn't say.

The words felt like a scalpel slicing through her composure. It reminded her of the rumors, the whispers that she had run away because she was weak, because she couldn't handle the pressure of being with a Hansen.

Adria's face went paper-white. She reached for her water glass again, but her hand jerked. Water sloshed over the rim, staining the tablecloth.

Thud.

A dull, heavy sound came from under the table.

"Ow! Fuck!" Ollie yelped, jumping in his seat. He glared at Damon. "You kicked me!"

Damon didn't even blink. His eyes were cold, dead sharks. "Shut up, Ollie."

The command was low, but it carried a threat of violence that silenced the entire table.

Campbell didn't like the attention Damon was paying to Adria, negative or not. She picked up a napkin, dipping it in her water glass. "Here, let me clean your cuff, honey," she cooed, dabbing at Damon's sleeve, though there was no blood there. It was a performance. He is mine. I touch him.

Damon flinched. His instinct was to pull away-Adria saw the muscles in his arm bunch. But then his eyes flicked to Adria. She was looking down, refusing to witness their intimacy.

Damon didn't move. He let Campbell touch him, staring at the top of Adria's head with a look of tortured frustration.

Adria forced herself to pick up her fork. She had to eat. She had to look normal. She cut a piece of the garnish, the silverware screeching against the china.

Heads turned. Adria dropped the fork, her cheeks burning. "Sorry," she whispered. Her voice was a broken rasp.

She looked at her plate. The oysters seemed to be mocking her. She couldn't do it.

Damon was watching her plate. He saw the way she swallowed, the sheen of sweat on her upper lip. He remembered. He remembered how she used to love seafood. And he saw the revulsion now.

He raised his hand, snapping his fingers at a passing waiter.

"Take this away," Damon said, pointing at Adria's plate.

Adria's head snapped up. Campbell froze, her hand still on Damon's arm.

"Bring her the soup," Damon ordered. "Hot. Cream of mushroom."

The waiter hesitated. "Sir, the menu is set-"

"Did I ask?" Damon's voice was a whip crack. "Bring the soup."

He turned his gaze back to Adria. His expression was a mask of sneering disdain, but his actions were confusingly precise.

"You look like a ghost," he said, his voice dripping with venom. "I don't need you passing out and ruining my dinner. It's depressing to look at."

The words were cruel. They were meant to hurt. But the soup... he remembered she liked mushroom soup when she was sick.

Adria stared at him, confusion warring with the pain in her chest. "Thank you," she whispered.

Damon watched her, his anger warring with a terrifying realization. She wasn't fighting back. The Adria he knew would have thrown the drink in his face. This Adria... she was broken. And the thought made him want to burn the world down.

The soup arrived, steaming and fragrant. Adria took a small sip, the warmth spreading through her chest, momentarily easing the knot in her stomach. It was a small mercy in a room full of knives.

Campbell, sensing she was losing the center of gravity, decided to reclaim it. She turned to Ollie, her voice pitched to carry.

"So, Ollie, did you hear? I'm finally going on the Hansen ski trip this year." She beamed, resting her chin on her hand. "Mrs. Hansen practically insisted."

Ollie looked at Damon, sweat beading on his forehead. "Uh, right. Yeah. If... if Damon is cool with it."

"Of course he is," Campbell laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "I'm practically family now. Six years is a long time, right, Damon?"

Adria felt the blood drain from her face. Six years. She had been gone six years. Campbell had been there for six years. It sounded like a marriage in all but name.

Zack, trying to diffuse the bomb ticking in the center of the table, turned to Adria. "So, Adria. How long are you back for? Are you heading back to Boston after this?"

The table went quiet. Even the silverware noises seemed to dampen.

Damon didn't move, but Adria saw his hand-the one wrapped in the bloody napkin-tighten around his wine glass. His knuckles were white. He was listening.

Adria set her spoon down. She dabbed her mouth with the napkin, buying herself a second. She needed to end this. She needed to sever the tie before she suffocated.

"I'm not going back to Boston," she said. Her voice was steady, surprisingly so. "And I'm not staying in D.C."

Damon's head snapped up. For a fraction of a second, there was something in his eyes-hope? Vulnerability? It was gone so fast she thought she imagined it.

"I've accepted a position at Nanxi Affiliated Hospital," Adria said, looking at the centerpiece of white roses. "In the trauma center."

Damon's eyes went wide. The hope vanished, replaced by a shock that quickly curdled into fury.

Campbell let out a scoff. "Nanxi City? God, that's literally across the country. You really want to get away, don't you?"

"Nanxi City?" Damon's voice was a low rumble, vibrating through the table.

Adria forced herself to meet his gaze. It was like looking into a storm. "Yes. They have one of the best trauma teams in the nation."

Damon let out a short, harsh laugh. He leaned forward, his large frame casting a shadow over her. "Is it for the job, Adria? Or are you just running away again? That's what you do best, isn't it?"

The accusation hit her like a physical blow. Running away. If only he knew. If only he knew she had crawled away to save her life.

"I'm starting over, Damon," she said quietly.

"Starting over," he repeated, tasting the words like poison. "Is that what you call it?"

The air was too thin. The walls were closing in. Adria couldn't do this. Not here. Not with Campbell hanging on him, not with the memory of the baby she lost screaming in her head.

She stood up abruptly. Her chair scraped loudly against the parquet floor, a harsh, ugly sound that drew eyes from neighboring tables.

"Excuse me," she said, clutching her purse. "I'm not feeling well."

She didn't wait for a response. She turned and walked away, her heels clicking rapidly on the floor. She didn't run, but it was close.

Damon started to rise, his chair tipping back.

"Damon, don't," Campbell hissed, grabbing his arm with both hands. "The press is watching. Don't you dare leave me here."

Damon looked down at her hands on his arm. His face twisted in revulsion. "Get off me."

He ripped his arm away, but the moment was lost. Adria was already through the double doors.

Damon stood there, chest heaving. He yanked at his bowtie, loosening it as if it were a noose. He pulled his phone from his pocket, ignoring the stares of the entire room.

Outside, the night air hit Adria's face, cold and biting. She shivered violently.

Goodbye, she thought, looking back at the glowing windows of the estate. Goodbye to all of it.

Adonis came jogging out the front door. "Adria! Wait! Are you okay?"

She shook her head, tears finally spilling over. "Get me a car, Adonis. Please. I need to leave. Now."

Up on the terrace, hidden by the shadows of a pillar, Damon watched her get into the black sedan. His face was unreadable, a mask of stone. He pressed the phone to his ear.

"It's me," he said to his assistant. "Find out her flight number. Now."